The Duchess Diaries
by Random Antagonist
Summary: Royalty isn't all tea and flirting. It's also developing a strategy to take over Western Europe. (A parody of the godawful movie.)
1. In Which My Mother Throws Me Out Of The ...

Author's note: I think I may have gotten a lot of the characters wrong. I also may have gotten a lot of other things wrong. But that's why it's called fanfic, innit? I only saw the movie once, so I'm basing my entire knowledge of the canon on that. Just so you know.   
I briefly considered writing an "If I Was The Princess" thing, but decided against it. This is the next best thing.   
  
The nation of Rachelia was in trouble. I was down to my last ten nukes, enemy troops were invading our borders, the peasants were staging a coup, and my mother was yelling at me to come downstairs for dinner.   
That's the only problem with playing SimNation. Nobody ever seems to understand just how serious your situation is. I could be cowering in my palace, waiting to be assassinated by my former bodyguard, and my mother would want me to fold towels. God, I hate real life.   
She was waiting at the table, chewing on a cigarette. "Jesus, girl. I slave over a hot stove all day and you just ignore me right when I got dinner on da table." She stabbed her cigarette at me. "You looking for a beating or what?"   
"Slaved for three minutes over a fucking microwave, more like," I muttered, shoveling down the Stouffer's mac and cheese as fast as I could.   
"Hey, you want caviar and kitch, you go to your dad's house," Mom instructed me. "Oh, that's right. Your daddy lives way out in California now. Think you can walk all the way over there?" She grinned.   
"It's pronounced keesh," I explained to her. "And I'm sort of busy right now."   
"Busy stuffing your face with the food I bought from MY money, not that you ever do a fucking thing to EARN any goddamn cash around here." Mom got up from the table. "All you ever do around here is waste time on that computer."   
"It's not wasting time. I play war simulation games." I chucked the plastic dish in the garbage can and headed back upstairs.   
Mon snagged it from the garbage and tossed it into the sink. "Don't throw these away, girl. You can reuse them."   
"For what, eyeliner?" I muttered from the top of the stairs.   
Mom stormed up the stairs, still holding her cigarette. "You do NOT make fun of me, chica! You wanna mock me, you...you DON'T!"   
"I wouldn't mock you if you weren't such a bitch." I went into my room and slammed my door.   
Mom threw open the door and grabbed my arm, hauling me out of there like a bag of garbage. "That's it. I work all day at that dingy stupid resale store trying to be nice to bitchy old ladies for minimum wage just so I can put food on the table, and then I have to come home to a foul-mouthed DYKE of a daughter who don't even say hey Mom, how was work, you just stay cooped up in that room and bitch about the food..." She took a deep breath. "Well, I'm SICK of it! You can go stand on a streetcorner for all I care. Get your money that way, maybe you'll appreciate all I do for you." She pushed me out onto the sidewalk and slammed the door behind me.   
  
Now, I'm a smart girl. I don't mean smart like I have a fast mouth, although I do. I mean, smart like intelligent. I do things to keep my brain in good working condition. I don't use any kind of drug, although God knows most of them are available right next door. I read a lot, especially books on politics. I've read George Orwell's "1984" more times than I can count. I go to art films and museums, whenever I can get in for free. I read newspapers.   
But you don't have to be smart to know that hanging around on a streetcorner in New York on a Friday night isn't a very good idea. 


	2. In Which I Get A Girlfriend And A Monarc...

Note to everyone who thinks I haven't read the book: I have. I didn't like it. I didn't like the movie, but I didn't like the movie better. So this is sort of a conglomeration of the two.   
Note to everyone who thinks my first-person narrator is Mia: She isn't. As you will find out eventually.   
  
  
I walked around for a while, standing in doorways and hanging out in McDonald's, just trying to keep warm. I hadn't had time to get my wallet, or the stash of money under my mattress, or even my coat. I managed to get a packet of French fries at a McDonald's by explaining my sorry plight to the manager. He also gave me the address of a shelter for runaway girls.   
"It's right near, you know where all those fancy old houses are? In back of there. Big old brick place, can't miss it." He scribbled down the address for me. "But I'd go back, if I were you. Let your mom cool down a little."   
I thanked him for the advice and snarfed the fries, then set out for the shelter.   
  
I stayed at that damn shelter for a week.   
The beds near the heating vents were all taken up, so I was squeezed into a little corner with spiderwebs in it. When I woke up, I felt something crawling over my face. It turned out to be what looked like a baby tarantula.   
Have you ever woken up at six A.M. and tried to get to the bathroom by rushing ahead of 50 other girls, some of whom have knives, tattoos, and track lines on their arms? It's not fun. I barely had time to get the spider prickles off of my face before my nose was nearly bashed in by a chick with enormous muscles. "Movitalosit," she slurred.   
I tried to shove her back. "What the hell is your problem?"   
She turned to face me. She was terrifying. Beautiful, but terrifying. "Gedoutta ma face."   
I held up my hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to get some water here, okay?"   
She grunted. "Ya new here."   
I agreed.   
She stuck out her meaty hand. I shook it. "I'm Johanna. First thing ya gotta know here is that the bathroom is a war zone."   
  
In a few days, the shelter began to feel like home. I even had a routine. I would get up, splash water on my face, grab something edible from the kitchen, and set out walking. First I visited my mom's house, to see if she would take me back. The first day she wasn't even there. The second day, there was a strange car in the driveway. A long, black car. I figured she had found a boyfriend.   
After the peek at my former dwelling, I would duck into the McDonald's where the manager gave me fries. I would take a quick pee and inquire about work positions. They never had anything open. Eventually, I gave up asking.   
I would then work my way through the convenience stores and fast food joints of the city, trying to find a position. Nothing. Nobody was hiring a white lesbian 18-year-old with spiky blue hair.   
After a few hours in the public library alone with some books, I would make my way back to the shelter, to a bowl of macaroni and cheese and the strong arms of Johanna. It wasn't the best life, but it was some kind of a life. If I had returned home, I would surely be met with withering scorn and even lousier treatment than I had before.   
  
While I was thus engaged on these rounds one day, a long black car pulled up next to me, and the window rolled down.   
I was looking for work, but honest work. I didn't want to spend my life jacking off 60-year-old executives for money. I backed off a little and shook my head.   
Instead of the rich perv I had been expecting, it was a 50-year-old woman. Short hair, nice suit, expensive-looking jewelry.   
"Are you Rachelle Winston?" she asked, putting the emphasis on the second syllable of each of my names.   
"Just Rachel," I said. "I don't mean to sound rude, but who are you and what do you want with me?"   
"Who is your mother?"   
"Mom? Um...Anna. Anna Winston. But I sort of skipped out a week ago."   
The woman clasped her hands together in delight. "I've been looking for you for so long! I am the Queen of Genovia, by the way. Please," she continued, "allow me to offer you a ride."   
"To where?"   
"The Genovian Embassy. I have some important news for you."   
  
She sat me down on an embroidered couch. "Your mother gave me a photo of you," she said. "That's how I found you."   
I took the photo from her hands. "Wasn't I sort of hard to find? I mean, there are a lot of teenage white girls with hair like mine in New York."   
"But no one with a necklace like that," she said.   
I put my hand up to the pendant I always wore. "What's wrong with it? Mom gave it to me." Well, she didn't exactly give it to me, per se. My dad gave it to her, and she never wears it, so I figure that gives me free reign.   
She laughed. "That is the Royal Seal of Genovia," she said. "Listen closely, dear. I have some shocking news for you."   
I waited.   
"We've done DNA tests and tracked you down. Your father--"   
"Is gay, and lives in California. I know," I interruped.   
She looked petulant. "No, dear. That's your mother's divorced husband. Your biological father was the Crown Prince of Genovia."   
"Yay," I said. "I'm a royal bastard. So?"   
She sighed and looked at her watch. "Anna won't be here for another half hour, so I can tell you this." She snapped her fingers. "Satine!"   
In came the most beautiful person I ever hoped to see in my life.   
She had straight red hair down to the small of her back, with bangs falling over her green sloe eyes. Her skin was perfect: creamy, tan, and unblemished. I fell in love with her at once.   
"Satine, please bring us some tea and whatever's in the kitchen," Queenie ordered.   
Satine curtseyed. "There's quiche and sushi, madam."   
"That's fine," Queenie snapped. "This girl hasn't eaten for days."   
"Actually, I had fries this morning--" I objected.   
"Hush," Queenie said. "Satine, NOW."   
Satine flounced into the kitchen. I took the opportunity to study the way her legs moved.   
Queenie cleared her throat. "I finally found the legitimate heir to the throne," she said. "However, she has absolutely no ambitions, save to avoid attention. She has no grasp of intrigue, espionage, or conspiracy. She will make a suitable figurehead, but nothing more."   
"Doesn't that really describe most members of the monarchy?" I quipped.   
She gave me a cold look. "Not anymore, dear. I have for some time been trying to get Genovia recognized as a world power."   
I nodded. "Well, do you have nukes?"   
"No, but we can get them if we want them," she responded. "To go on. The governing power is actually the prime minister. No one takes the royalty seriously."   
"What kind of government do you have?" I interrupted.   
Satine came in with two cups of tea and set them in front of us. "Madames." I gave her a sidewise grin. She giggled.   
"Thank you, Satine. We're parliamentary. Similar to America's Congress, but more powerful." I knew what that meant, but I let her go on. "For a long time we've been stable, but in the last election..." She shook her head. "The parliament voted for Erik Blare, who was running on the socialist contingency. He's challenging the monarchy, claiming that we do nothing but tax the peasants and then use the money for our own excesses."   
"And of course that's totally untrue and you're really being extremely altruistic, but the ungrateful proletariat doesn't recognize that," I commented.   
She laughed. "Of course not. I'm not that inbred that I would mistake decadence for self-sacrifice." She sipped her tea delicately. "I love my country, but I'm not quite willing to give up my rather pleasant lifestyle."   
"So you're going to play on the superstitions of the peasants with a huge propaganda campaign and somehow get Erik Blare out of office," I guessed.   
She shook her head and set down her tea. "No, dear. For a while, I've actually been setting up a rather nice nest egg, with which I plan to retire. I'm thinking Saint Tropez."   
"And what does this have to do with me?" I asked, trying the tea. It tasted faintly of apricots.   
"You come in here," she said. "Your mother told me all about your preoccupation with strategy games and politics. She's also told me that you've participated in several protests."   
Which was true. In second grade, I protested dodgeball by throwing the foam balls at the gym teacher. In fourth grade, I scribbled on the blackboard with permanent marker after the teacher refused to let me spell "color" with a U, which is, let me stress, a perfectly acceptable way of spelling it in Europe, and up until that time, most of the books I had read were by English authors. In seventh grade, I protested the substandard cafeteria food by dumping a vat of the highlighter-yellow mucous they try to pass off as gravy into the toilet. And in high school, when the principal refused to let me form a Gay/Straight alliance group on the grounds that "it wasn't appropriate", I stood outside his office with a few of my friends for a week straight, holding up signs and chanting.   
I nodded. "And?"   
Queenie set down her cup and leanred toward me. "I need you to create a revolution." 


	3. In Which I Lose A Girlfriend And Demonst...

Another note: Okay. Let me clear a few things up here. First off, I actually rather liked the movie and book. I simply didn't like the way it was done, and decided that I could do it better. Whether my version is in fact better is up to you, the reader, to decide. And this story IS related. By the way, I'm going with the version where the father is dead, since that was the version I experienced first.   
  
"A revolution? Me?"   
Queenie nodded solemnly. "Na Mersu, our intelligence agency, is woefully inept. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered you."   
"What does NAMERSU stand for?"   
"It doesn't stand for anything. It means "all-seeing" in Lechan, the indigenous language of Genovia."   
"Do you guys speak Lechan?"   
"French, mainly. Some of the peasants up in the mountains still speak it." Queenie looked at her watch. "Your half-sister Mia is going to be here in a few minutes. Please do not discuss this with her."   
"I won't," I promised.   
The door slammed. "Grandmere, I'm here!" shouted someone.   
Queenie rolled her eyes and gave a regal little sigh of disgust. "Come in, dear," she called, in high, fluting, accented tones much different from the sharp, unadorned voice she had been using with me.   
A girl entered the room. I scanned her.   
Private school, obviously. I could tell by the uniform. She didn't seem to be too popular. Popular girls always wore makeup, and she wasn't. Even just the way she stood, heels out, toes in, told me that she was totally unaccustomed to people noticing her.   
Peoplewatching is a skill I've had a long time to develop.   
She barely took notice of me. "What are we going to do today, Grandmere?"   
I smiled brightly and held out my hand. "Hi. I'm Rachel."   
She stared at me in disgust. "Um, who are you?" I could deal with the disgust. A sheltered thing like her would naturally have not had a lot of contact with lowlifes like me.   
Queenie cleared her throat. "This is Rachelle Winston."   
Mia game me a false, ephemeral smile. "Great to meet you."   
"Rachelle, this is Mia Thermopolis, Princess of Genovia. You are directly under her, as you are a duchess."   
A duchess?   
Mia set her books down on the upholstered chair. While she was busy with this, I whispered to Queenie, "A duchess? But my dad was a prince."   
"I plan on telling Mia that you are her cousin," Queenie told me. "I think that would be easier for her to deal with. Besides, in the Genovian monarchy, there can only be one prince and one princess. If Mia dies, you would take over. You're like a spare princess."   
"But I'm the eldest," I protested.   
"Yes, but you are also illegitimate." Which was a good point.   
"When did you find her?" Mia asked Queenie, ignoring me.   
"Just found out today," I said.   
"Which is why she has a lot of catching up to do," Queenie added. "You're progressing quite well, Mia. Instead of me teaching you, why don't you help Rachelle."   
"But I hardly know anything yet," Mia protested.   
"Then you can watch," Queenie snapped. Mia sulked and plopped herself next to her bookbag.   
Satine came out bearing more tea and some brownies. "I just baked these," she murmured.   
Mia grabbed a brownie and a cup and proceeded to stuff her face while Queenie looked on in horror. "A princess does not eat like a pig," she said.   
I took a brownie and bit off a corner, keeping my eyes locked on Satine's. I closed my eyes and swallowed it with a sigh of ecstasy, slowly licking my lips to catch the crumbs. Then I started sucking on the bitten corner, letting my tongue flick out just a little bit.   
Satine almost dropped her tray.   
"Watch how Rachelle eats her brownie," Queenie lectured. "She takes little bites and *savors* it."   
"She was *sucking* on it," Mia pointed out.   
I shrugged. "Well, it's good chocolate." I raised my eyebrows at Satine, who blushed and hurried into the kitchen.   
"Let's see how you would walk through a crowd," Queenie said.   
I placed my brownie on a tray and demonstrated the strut I had developed for walking through the halls and the streets at night. Head held high, not looking at anything except for straight in front of you, large quick steps like you're in a hurry but you're taking your time. When you walk like this, paper airplanes miss your head, Scotch-taped "KICK ME" signs won't stick to your backpack, jocks get out of your way, and freshmen ask you for directions.   
Queenie applauded delicately. "Bravo, and without any lessons either. Mia?"   
Mia got up, shooting me a resentful look, and crossed the room with a stride that made her look like a teacher trying to break up two kids in a knife fight.   
"Good," Queenie approved.   
  
After a long afternoon of being polite and flirting with the maid, I headed back to the shelter. Queenie had offered to let me stay at the embassy, but I wanted to get my stuff.   
I arrived just in time to see a body being carried out to an ambulance on a stretcher.   
I pushed my way to the front of the crowd. "What the hell happened? Somebody tell me what happened."   
"Johanna got in a fight with her ex-boyfriend," someone said. "He had a gun."   
My heart stopped. Johanna dead?   
I raced to the stretcher and looked under the sheet. It *was* Johanna.   
I let the sheet fall. I couldn't believe it. This was the girl who, just this morning, had given me an orgasm before breakfast and then broke the nose of a guy who tried to feel me up.   
A paramedic peered into my face. "You know her?"   
"She's my sister," I lied. "We were staying here after our mom kicked us out." Tears started to well up in my eyes. I wiped them away.   
He patted me on the shoulder. "Why don't you ride in the ambulance with your sister?"   
  
They didn't do much to try to save her. The medic gave her a few jolts from the defillibrators, then just shrugged. "Nope. Sorry."   
I was aghast. "That's it? That's all you can do?"   
"Under the penniless-chick-off-the-street health plan, yeah. If she was covered, it'd be a different story."   
I got an idea. "My grandmother is the Queen of Genovia. If you can save Johanna, she will reward you handsomely."   
The medic peered at me in disbelief. "I'm sure."   
I fell to the floor and started begging. "I swear to God she is. Look!" I showed him the pendant.   
"You could have stolen that."   
"With the security around the embassy? Not likely. PLEASE do something. I don't want her to die."   
The medic sighed and gave Johanna another shock. Nothing. "It won't work anyway. The bullets went through her head."   
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT?!"   
"You didn't ask." 


	4. In Which I Get Cozy With Satine And Eat ...

I trudged back to the embassy, weary and heartsick.   
Satine answered the door. "Madame?"   
I gazed at her. She looked like an angel. "My girlfriend just died."   
Satine reached out to hug me. "I am so sorry, madame! Is there anything I can do to ease the pain?"   
"There's a lot you could do," I murmured.   
Satine helped me into the parlor and plied me with tea and crumpets. "Let me just wake up Madame Queen--"   
I shook my head. "You don't need to. Just stay here with me for a while."   
Satine looked incredulous.   
I patted the sofa seat beside me. "I'm serious. I am lonely and in need of some comfort."   
She took off her apron and sat ladylike, legs crossed. "I am so sorry for your loss, Madame."   
"You don't need to keep calling me Madame," I said.   
"It was part of our training," she explained.   
"Well, don't call me Madame when we're alone, at least," I said. "There is no need."   
"Very well...Rachelle." Satine smiled shyly.   
I decided I really liked the name Rachelle. Especially the way Satine said it.   
She clasped her hands and stared at the floor. "Madame--Rachelle--I noticed the way you were looking at me earlier."   
"You did?" Like I couldn't tell.   
She nodded. "I am not accustomed to such attention. I am sorry if I distracted you."   
"What do you mean you're not used to people flirting with you? With your looks, you must be getting hit on by everyone."   
"Not really. I spend most of my time in the embassy. There are not many men here. The only man that comes in often is the chauffeur, and I do not think he likes women very much."   
"Well, *I* do." I twisted a little to face her. "Satine, have you ever had a lover?"   
She blushed bright red. "Oh no, Madame, no, no. We are not allowed."   
"Really? None of the people you've ever...uh, served, ever tried to get you in bed?"   
"No." She raised her head a little. "And even if one did, I would not succumb to him. My mama warned me about men."   
"Did she ever warn you about women?" I asked.   
Satine smiled. "She did tell me to beware of beautiful women with short blue hair." She slipped her arm around my shoulders. "But I did not always listen to my mama," she whispered.   
  
And wouldn't you know it, that was the moment Mia decided to come clomping down the stairs.   
  
Satine sprang off of the couch. "Mierde! I am sorry, Rachelle." She tied her apron back on and hustled into the kitchen. I followed her.   
Mia was standing in the middle of the tile floor, in a blue terry cloth bathrobe and pink bunny slippers. "Do we have any chocolate ice cream?"   
Satine bent down to look in the freezer. "We have chocolate gelato."   
Mia sighed. "I guess that's going to have to do." She pushed past Satine and dug out the carton of gelato. "Rachel, help me out here."   
"Can I be of assistance?" Satine asked.   
Mia shrugged. "Nah."   
Satine gave me a helpless look and slipped out. I sat down with Mia.   
"What were you guys doing?" Mia asked.   
"I just came from the homeless shelter, where I discovered that my girlfriend had been killed by her psycho ex-boyfriend. So I came back and got cozy with the maid." No, I didn't say that. Instead, I said, "Just talking."   
"I have a problem," Mia announced. "I can't decide who to take to the royal ball."   
Royal ball. The words conjured up magical images for me. Majestic waltzes, savory little things on bits of toast, champagne, drunk debutantes bursting out of their bodices, cool balconies overlooking gardens, discreet rendevouzes in said gardens...   
"I could take Michael. He's really cute, and his family is rich. Or I could take Kenny. He's a little antisocial, but he's a real sweetie." Mia absently snorked down a huge clump of gelato. "They're both commoners, though, so Grandmere will never agree to either of them."   
I couldn't see what difference taking a commoner to a ball made, especially since the country was scheduled to get rid of its monarchy in a year or two. I said so. At least, the first part.   
"You see," Mia said, "if I go to a ball with someone, that's okay. If I go to another ball with them, that's as good as getting betrothed. If I go with someone different, then I'm fickle."   
"Why don't you take both of them?" I suggested.   
Mia choked. A brown stream dribbled from her mouth. She wiped it off. "Are you nuts? I've seen way too many Disney movies to know how that would end."   
"Yeah? How?"   
She sighed. "God, don't you know anything? I'd pretend like I was only taking one, and then I'd spend the entire ball trying to make sure they didn't see each other."   
"Well, why don't you tell both of them? I don't think they'd get jealous."   
She snorted. "The society pages would have a field day." She waved her spoon in the air. "I can see it now. 'Royal Princess Two-Timing Future Husbands!' Yeah, good idea."   
I shrugged. "Just trying to help." 


	5. In Which Satine's Mysterious Past Is Fin...

It was another one of our interminable princess deportment sessions. Queenie was holding Mia's head with one hand and her left shoulder with the other. I was drinking cream tea and making kissy-face at Satine, who was sitting on the corner of the couch holding a feather duster.   
"Mia--no, don't--dear, please DO try to stand up straight, like this and--oh, for heaven's sake..." Queenie stepped back. "Well, that's a start." She glanced at me. "Rachel, this may take a while. You may study your Genovian history. There is a book on my bed. Satine, you may go with her."   
I finished my tea and slipped off the couch. "Yes, ma'am." Satine silently followed me.   
  
I went down to Queenie's bedroom, which was pretty much what you'd expect from a queen. Gold, upholstery, lots of heavy old wood furniture.   
I picked up the book. "A Definitive History of the Genovian Empire and its Neighbors." The author was one N.C. Snidersin. "Sounds fascinating."   
Satine hovered by the doorway. "Is there anything you require, Madame?"   
"Would you close the door, please?" I asked.   
Satine did. "Is there anything you require...Rachelle?"   
I patted the bed. "Sit down next to me."   
She perched on the edge of the bed and gave me a shy, coquettish glance. I considered making use of the luxurious bed, but thought better of it. Queenie was clever. If she had just wanted me to make out with Satine, she wouldn't have put the book on the bed. And if she had wanted me just to read the book, she wouldn't have sent Satine with me.   
"Satine, where do you come from? I've told you so much about myself, but you haven't told me anything."   
Satine shook her head. "Madame, it's not of interest and it's not my place."   
"It's of interest to me. And it IS your place. In fact, since you serve me, it's your duty to answer." I patted her hand. "Please, tell me."   
"Tis a long story."   
"We have time."   
  
Satine was born in Florin, a small country right next to Genovia. Florin had been absorbed into the EEC in the 1930s. Even though it was still technically a nation, it had no political power whatsoever. It was supposed to be a monarchy, but the royal family had died out in the 15th century, when the last remaining prince had been overthrown by pirates, or so the story went.   
"My mama always told me that I was descended from the princess that was meant to marry him. It was only a tale, but I do think I look like her picture in the Royal Gallery."   
Satine's family had been upper-middle-class, as far as East Europeans go. When she was five years old, there had been an attempt at a revolution, and the house had been burned to the ground. Her parents had been put in jail, and she had been adopted by some Gypsies for a few years, until they had had been arrested for vagrancy in Genovia. The adults were sent to a work farm in Siberia (Genovia was allied with Russia at the time), and the children were put to work in the palace. Most of them were fired for stealing food or small pieces of jewelry, but Satine's mother had taught her well, and she was kept on as a maid.   
"My parents are still in jail, even though the revolution failed after just a few months. I have been here for ten years now. As soon as I save up enough money, I will buy a ticket to my native country and take them back here. I think they will be able to get jobs in the embassy, possibly doing paperwork. It is not what they were used to, but it is better than languishing in a cell."   
I patted Satine's hand. "Satine, I promise I shall raise money to free your parents."   
She blushed. "Oh, madame, would you really?"   
  
Mia had finally left, and Satine had been sent to supervise the sweeping of the stairs. I had some things to discuss with Queenie.   
"You haven't learned how to gavotte yet, have you?" she asked me.   
"No, because I haven't had TIME. I've been busy learning the entire history of Genovia and interrogating the maid."   
Queenie smiled. "So she's told you her tragic story."   
"Yes. She has. And I'm going to send her back to her family."   
"No you aren't." Queenie carefully stirred her tea. It occured to me that I had never seen her without a cup of tea or a cigarette in her hand. "I acquainted you with Satine for a reason."   
I blinked. "Wait. You arranged for me to hook up with Satine?"   
"I rearranged her schedule so that you would meet her, instead of the maid I usually have at the times you are here. And there is, by the way, an excellent reason I've kept Satine on instead of letting her go, as would, I suppose be the compassionate thing to do. Besides the fact that she's an excellent maid, I mean."   
I gaped. "You bitch. You royal bitch."   
Queenie laughed. It sounded, literally, like wind chimes. "There is a reason for everything I do, dear." She rose and patted me on the shoulder. "The ball is in a week and we have a big day ahead of us. I suggest you get some sleep."   
"You're going to be first against the wall when the revolution comes," I called after her.   
"The only wall I'm going to be against is--" I couldn't hear the rest of her reply.   
  
That night, I lay in bed, my mind racing. A cliche, I know, but apt.   
All of my life, I had rebelled against every authority figure I could find. My mother, my teachers...And now I had discovered the ultimate authority figure. The very symbol of an antiquated, obselete power structure. An eminence gris that manipulated everyone around her for her own gain.   
It was a hell of a shock to discover that I was on the same team. 


	6. In Which I Spew Out A Few Facts About Ge...

Here's how the denizens of the Genovian Embassy spent the month before the ball:   
Writing in her diary (Mia), baking cookies and little savory things on toast (Satine), making phone calls to mysterious men with Russian accents (Queenie), studying (me), shopping (Queenie and Mia), flirting (me and Satine), ignoring each other (Satine and Mia), insulting each other (me and Mia), having spats about decorations and pay (Queenie and Satine), making deals (me and Queenie), and even more studying (all me).   
Actually, what I learned was pretty interesting.   
Genovia has two major indigenous ethnic groups: the Rhaije and the Esnuda. The Rhaije are mostly from the outer edges of Genovia, particularly the northern wastelands. They're a fierce, warlike, nomadic tribe, with several dozen clans that are permantently feuding with each other. They hunt a lot.   
The Esnuda are a very peaceful tribe; they live mainly around the middle area of Genovia, particularly the southern shoreline. They're mostly farmers and gatherers and artisans. Most of the Esnuda have assimilated into the modern culture; they tend to live in the few big cities in Genovia.   
The population of Tobeins, the capital city of Genovia, is 85% Esnuda. There are very small pockets of Rhaije in the inner-city area, but they're mostly bums and winos, from what I've heard. The Rhaije don't take well to city living. The other 10% are tourists. For some reason, Genovia is a popular tourist spot. I expected that to change soon.   
You'll remember that I wrote before about Lechan, the national language of Genovia. Actually, Lechan isn't used very much anymore. In the 1880s, the royal family decided that it was "an uncouth and barbarian tongue" because the Rhaije spoke it more than the Esnuda did. Naturally, it was outlawed. The only people that paid any attention to the decree were the Esnuda, who carefully avoided using it in public, but went to a lot of effort to keep it alive underground. (This sort of thing happens more often than you would think in the civilized world.) In the late 1980s, Parliament made an attempt to revive its national use, but Queenie overturned the motion. Now, Lechan is used as sort of a talismanic language, mainly for mottoes and prayers in the esoteric Genovian Catholic Church. Anyone using it inside of city boundaries can be fined up to {Z}300 (a {Z} is a zagnouth, the local unit of currency, which is equivalent to about five US dollars).   
I'm sorry. You aren't really interested in this, are you? You don't care about the history of Genovia. All you want to read is me insulting Mia and getting cozy with Satine.   
Tough noogies. Satine and I didn't get anywhere. Every time we had a spare moment alone, Queenie was there, yelling at me to study or complaining that Satine's mushroom quiche was about to burn.   
Well, no, that's not exactly true. We did get to go out for a nice afternoon one day when Queenie had to take Mia out shopping because the chauffeur was sick. I took Satine to Central Park and we went to the John Lennon Memorial. I had been playing my copy of "Sergeant Pepper's" all week, and Satine had decided she liked the Beatles. We didn't get to do anything else; Queenie came by and picked us up after about 20 minutes. 


	7. In Which I Observe Diplomacy In Action

The Genovian national anthem is easily one of the most horrendous pieces of music on the planet. It sounds like a mad composer decided to breed "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean" and the theme from M*A*S*H and then add all sorts of ugly little instrumental frills.   
  
As we descended the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, Mia started waving like a ninny. Queenie had to grab her arm and hiss, "Be dignified!" at her.   
  
Not that it was going to be easy being dignified. Mia had roped me into taking one of her boyfriends as a date. He had started out being sort of cute, like a puppy, trying to hold my hand and giving me these gooshy looks. Mia had chosen a blonde boy with a face like a weasel.   
  
I approved of Queenie's taste in men. She had brought her bodyguard, Joseph. Joseph was very large, very handsome in a swarthy way, and very continental. The only drawback was that he kept glancing around for, I guess, ninjas, instead of paying attention to Queenie. She didn't seem to mind.   
  
Two weeks before the ball, Queenie had forced me to grow my hair out. Then she drove me to an extremely expensive salon on the Upper East side and made me dye it chestnut brown. I had it in a sort of boyish Winona Ryder style, which was at least better than fluffing it and plopping a tiara on top, like Mia had done.   
  
Mia was wearing the ugliest frothy pink thing I had ever seen. At least 20 yards of tulle had been sacrificed to make it nice and poofy, and I could swear I saw a whalebone hoop somewhere under there.   
  
I had elected to wear a conservative pinstriped suit with a skinny-but-loose skirt. The only concession I'd made to Queenie's insistence that I "represent the office of Duchess with all the nobility and grace you can muster" was a pair of faux-diamond Victorian dangly earrings I'd picked up in a Greenwich antique shop. I was pretty sure they were slowly turning my ears green.   
  
Queenie sent Mia and Weasel-boy off to stand in the receiving line, then leaned over and whispered, "Go observe. This is a good place to learn important diplomatic skills."   
  
I scanned the ballroom, looking for a vantage point. There was a narrower staircase leading to a little balcony that overlooked the entire ballroom. It seemed like a good place to start.   
  
I sent Puppy-boy off for some drinks, instructing him with painful exactitude as to what I wanted. He set off eagerly.   
  
After he was out of sight, I got up to the balcony and watched.   
  
I had chosen a good place to watch. The balcony was high enough so that I could see the entire ballroom, yet close enough to the floor that I could just tell what people were talking about.   
  
The first thing I noticed was that there were clearly two types of people on the floor. Half of the people were composed of serious-looking men in ill-fitting suits and sharp-looking women in dowdy pearls. The Harry Truman and Margaret Thatcher type, real politicians.   
  
The other half were dashing men in tuxedos and ladies in extremely fancy dresses. Dan Quayle and Jackie Kennedy types, socialites.   
  
Both halves seemed to move in the same patterns. People collected in little groups and talked for about five minutes. Then the groups slowly spread out and formed other little groups, with each member of each group acting as a representative for their previous group. It was like watching a very slow nuclear reaction.  
  
The interesting thing was that while socialites and politicians shared the same floor space, there was never a socialite in a politicians' group or a politician in a socialites' group.   
  
I was lost in a reverie of sociological thoughts when someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Pardon me?"   
  
I whirled around. "What do you--oh, it's you." Puppy-boy had returned with the drinks.   
  
"The bartender had a little trouble with yours," he said, handing me a vile orange concoction. I had completely forgotten what I had asked for. He studied his feet. "Um...they're starting to play dance music. Would you like to...?"   
  
I took a sip of the sticky-sweet concoction. It tasted a little like Pez. "Eh, why not?"   
  
The orchestra was playing a nice, slow waltz. Couples on the dance floor were swaying gently, or stepping around each other in a dignified and graceful manner. So naturally the first thing Puppy-boy did was decide to dip me. Unfortunately, his scrawny little arms were unused to supporting 135 pounds of duchess. I fell, hard.   
  
I was surrounded immediately by concerned people in fancy clothes. "Is she all right? What happened? Give her air! Don't move her...Fetch my smelling salts."   
  
So I faked it. "Oh goodness," I murmured, holding a limp hand to my forehead, "whatever happened to me? I feel a bit dizzy..." At that point, a blue-haired matron covered with pearls shoved a bottle of something under my nose. I nearly choked on the fumes.   
  
Joseph was right there, pulling me up. "I think she's had enough dancing for one night," he rumbled, giving a stern look to Puppy-boy. He helped me to the edge of the dance floor and sat me in a high-backed chair. "Are you all right, miss?"   
  
"I'm fine," I assured him, then thought better of it. If I feigned sickness I'd be able to get out of this glittering refuse dump. "But I am a tad bit dizzy," I admitted. "Perhaps I should go back to my quarters."   
  
Queenie showed up. "Rachelle, what happened?"   
  
"I dropped her!" wailed Puppy-boy. "It's all my fault...I'm so sorry..."   
  
"She says she feels dizzy," Joseph relayed to Queenie.   
  
Queenie nodded. "Very well. I'll call a maid to escort you back to your room." She leaned in and hissed in my ear, "I know you're faking it. You're not the kind that faints. I would expect this kind of behavior from Mia, not from you."   
  
"My back hurts, and I do feel a little dizzy," I said. That part was true. Apparently Puppy-boy had forgotten to ask for my drink without alcohol. It wasn't the first liquor I'd ever imbibed, but I was used to Maneschewitz, which has more sugar than alcohol in it. And the stuff in my drink had probably been the kind of liquor that's aged in a monastery and is 350% proof. I made a mental note to only drink, in the future, if I wanted a really good excuse to get out of an extremely boring function. 


	8. In Which I Get Drunk And Discuss Politic...

Did I mention I wasn't, at that point, used to alcohol? I had always strenuously avoided it. I had never liked the chug-a-lug parties that kids tended to have, and watching Mom slowly descend into alcoholism was enough of a deterrent for me to stay away from it.   
  
The effects of that one drink were taking hold. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and sitting on the chaise longue with my head between my legs, I figured I should have either practiced my drinking or just stuck to Coke. Too late for that.   
  
Mia sat down next to me. "Hey, are you okay?"   
  
"No," I mumbled. "Lemme alone."   
  
"Did you eat something gross? I saw people eating, like, fish eggs." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe it's some kind of rich-person prank, getting people to eat disgusting things."   
  
"You are getting stupider by the day," I muttered.   
  
"What did you say?"   
  
"I'm going to throw up." I wended my way into the bathroom. Of course, Mia followed me.   
  
"Maybe you should go back to the embassy." She pulled a cell phone out of her purse. "I can call a cab or something if you like."   
  
I was touched by this display of niceness. "That's very kind of you, but I'll just ask one of the porters to get the driver."   
  
"Okay. So, what did you think of Kenny?"   
  
Oh. My date. I had almost forgotten about him. "Um, he's okay."   
  
"I was trying to set you up with him so that he'd stop bugging me, but I guess that's not going to work now." Mia peered in the mirror and did something fussy with her hair. "I guess since you're sick and he's your date, he's going to have to go with you." She sounded very pleased about the prospect.   
  
So that was it. "Oh, I couldn't do that. He's having such a nice time! No, I guess you'll just have to entertain both him and..." What was the other guy's name? "Michael. But I'm sure you can handle it." I patted her on the shoulder and rose to exit.   
  
I decided to walk home. The embassy was half a block away, and it was in a very nice neighborhood. Besides, it was a lovely July night and I needed to think some things over.   
  
As I strolled along the flag-lined boulevard, I noticed a forlorn figure in a fake fur coat. It was Mia's friend Lilly. I recognized her from the few times Mia had been allowed to bring a friend to princess lessons.   
  
Lilly was a little more interesting than Mia. The two of them looked a lot alike, but where Mia tended to try to hide her flyaway brown hair and gawkiness with gel and unflattering starched white blouses, Lilly accentuated hers with beaded headbands and those T-shirts you get from Hot Topic with clever sayings like "My invisble friend can beat up your invisible friend" printed on them. She always seemed to be a little more confident than her friend, and while she was still stuck in that "boys, makeup, and cute baby animals" teenybopper stage, she at least had some kind of grasp on the real world.   
  
I tapped her on the shoulder. "What are you doing in this part of town? I thought you lived near Greenwich."   
  
Lilly whirled around. "Oh my God, you scared me. Don't pull shit like that!" She peered at me. "Rachel? I thought you and Mia were supposed to be at the ball. With Michael and Kenny."   
  
"I decided to go home a little early." I put the back of my hand up to my forehead, in a classic swooning pose. "I've had a bit much to drink. Could you escort me back to the embassy?" I asked in my best Scarlett O'Hara voice.   
  
Lilly grinned and took my arm. "Sure. I really didn't expect to see anyone I knew around here."   
  
"So what are you doing here, then?" I asked.   
  
"Well, Mia wanted to take me to the ball. She thought it would be fun. But..." She shrugged. "I guess Queenie made her take Michael."   
  
"You don't like him?"   
  
"I think he's a jackass. He acts like this incredibly cool punk guy, but...Well, I've known him for longer than Mia has. My dad and his dad went to college together. In real life, he's an annoying prick."   
  
I nodded. "Yeah, I got that vibe."   
  
Lilly sighed. "Yeah...I'm sort of worried about Mia. Being a princess can't be good for her. You know what they say about absolute power."   
  
"It's not like she's the queen of the world or anything. Genovian royalty doesn't actually do that much. They're just the figureheads."   
  
"Really? From what I've been reading, they're the real head of the government. I mean, Queenie has to approve anything the Parliament does."   
  
"Nah, that's a fiction created by Queenie and the press. The approval by the queen is just a formality. It's not like the US, where the President has the power to veto things. The Parliament votes on it, and Queenie basically okays the vote."   
  
"But doesn't the queen have the power to overturn a vote?"   
  
"Technically, yeah. But that option hasn't been used for ages." I was lying through my teeth, of course. Queenie didn't technically have any power in the Parliament, but she did have the right of Genovian common law, which stated that the ruling monarch was allowed to pardon or condemn citizens at will without even a trial. It was a holdover from the days when kings still had oracles, or so Queenie claimed.   
  
The rule ensured that the monarch held sway over the entire country, especially Parliament. Queenie met with the heads of the various parties every month or so, right before an offical session. She told them the way she wished them to vote and which issues she wanted them to introduce. They would do so, because if they didn't do what Queenie said, she would throw them in jail or execute them for some trivial bit of treason.   
  
The problem was that the system was about to break down. The head of the Socialist party, Erik Blare, wasn't a Genovian citizen. He was English. Technically he was not covered under Genovian common law, and so Queenie held no sway over him. He was beginning to influence others to side with him and nobody could do anything about it.   
  
We finally reached the embassy. My head was still swimming, so I sat down on the steps while Lilly rang the doorbell.   
  
After a few minutes, Satine opened the door. "Ah, Mademoiselle Lilly. Thank you so much for escorting Rachelle home."   
  
"No problem." Lilly helped me up the steps, which was unneccesary but nice. She stood there for a second. "Rachel, can you tell Mia--never mind, it's not important." She scuttled away into the night.   
  
"Queenie told you I was coming back early, didn't she?" I asked as Satine led me up the stairs.   
  
"Of course she did. Now we must get you to bed. What did you have, anyway?"   
  
"Some orange drink. I don't know what was in it."   
  
Satine sniffed. "Well, whatever it was, I am sure it was strong. They serve very good liqueurs at functions like that." We reached my room. I sat on the bed and kicked my shoes off, then unbuttoned my shirt.   
  
Satine gently took my hands away from the shirt front. "Madame, allow me."   
  
"I can do this by myself, I'm not that inebriated," I told her muzzily.   
  
"After a ball, a lady should not undress herself. She has a maid for such things," Satine told me.   
  
It was not the least bit sexy having Satine undress me, if that's what you're thinking. It was embarassing, like being a doll or a toddler. Maybe in other circumstances it would have been nicer, but my head was throbbing and I really wanted to lie down.   
  
She finally let me be. I flopped facedown on the bed and tried to ignore my nausea. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt Satine rubbing my back.   
  
It really helped. My headache subsided to a dull roar, and I no longer wanted to throw up. "That feels so nice," I mumbled. "Do you do this a lot?"   
  
Satine just hummed and went to work on my shoulders. "When you are feeling better, perhaps we can do this again," she whispered in my ear.   
  
I had some very nice dreams that night. 


	9. In Which There Is A Bomb Threat At The E...

I was awoken at 3 A.M. by Queenie shaking me. At first I thought it was a surreal interruption into my otherwise pleasant dream.   
  
"Rachelle, wake up. You must wake up. We are in danger."   
  
I yawned. "What is this, a drill? I don't want--"   
  
"Goddamnit, we're all going to die! Get up NOW." Queenie yanked the covers off me.   
  
I sat up. "What's going on?"   
  
Mia appeared in the doorway. "Grandmere, this is scary! What should I do?"   
  
Queenie sighed. "Mia, just pack your important things and get in the car. We have to get to the airport."   
  
"Car? Airport? Why didn't someone tell me about this?"   
  
As Mia left, Queenie filled me in on the situation. "We got a call from someone, we don't know who it is yet. They claim that there is a bomb in the embassy and we have half an hour to get out before it blows up." She looked at her watch. "Actually, we now have twenty-three minutes."   
  
A bomb. Shit.   
  
I shot out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. I only had a few things (laptop, CDs, spare clothes) that I had to pack, so I threw them all into a backpack. I put the Genovian Seal that I had got from my mother around my neck.   
  
Queenie shoved it inside my shirt. "Don't let anyone see that. Do you have a death wish?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"If the perpetrators of this incident are whom I think they are, there will be many people around who do not wish to see the Royal Seal." She dragged me out to the limo. "Don't worry about your precious Satine; I got the servants out already. They are trained in case of emergencies like this and will meet us at the airport."   
  
We sped through the dark New York streets, lights off and flags flying, running red lights and speeding through intersections with diplomatic immunity. Joseph was driving us (we didn't have a regular chauffeur, and Queenie didn't trust anyone from an agency). Mia was huddled in the back, hugging her teddy bear and whimpering to herself. Queenie was in between us, chattering in rapid-fire French to someone on her cell phone.   
  
I was watching the scenery go by and thinking about what a weird situation this was. Just a month ago I had been a street kid with no hope of ever getting a job or going to college--now I was a royal personage being rushed to safety because someone thought I was important enough to kill. Amazing.   
  
Mia sniffled. "Who would do something like that? Who would be mean enough to plant a bomb in my house?"   
  
"Anyone who isn't satisfied with the way Queenie is running Genovia," I said, thinking about the Royal Seal. "And anyone in America who really knew about the situation. And someone who could infiltrate the embassy to the point of being able to plant a bomb. And someone who didn't actually want us to get blown up, so they sent in a message telling us to get out..."   
  
"But who knows about Genovia? It's just a stupid old country."   
  
I nodded. "There's hardly anyone in the US who cares about the political situation in Genovia to do something like this."   
  
"Lilly might. We were talking a few days ago and she said that she thought the whole idea of a Royal Family was...um...obsolete," Mia ventured.   
  
Had I been fully awake, I might have started speculating about the suspects. But it was 3:30 in the morning and I was very, very tired. I can't usually get by on less than seven hours of sleep.   
  
We were at LaGuardia before I knew it. The airport was crowded, but we were hustled through security and into the departure lounge before I had a chance to open my eyes.   
  
Mia settled down into a plastic chair and curled up with her teddy. She looked very young, too young to have to be dealing with any of this crap. I almost felt sorry for her--she hadn't asked for any of this. No teenage girl should have to worry that there are whole political groups who would cheerfully put her head on a spike.   
  
Queenie was standing at the gate, yelling at a clerk. Joseph was behind her, looking intimidating. "What do you mean the plane is not here yet? Where could the plane be? Does this airport have no charter planes? I called and asked for one an hour ago, surely you must have found someone that is willing to take a queen to her country?"   
  
The lady shook her head. "I'm very sorry, Miss. We here at LaGuardia International Airport do not usually take last-minute charters. You should have made an advance reservation--"   
  
"There was a bomb threat at the embassy! We must go back now! How could I have known about it in advance?"   
  
"Very sorry Miss but I--"   
  
"This is a matter of life and death! Surely there is a pilot with a small plane who is willing to take us across the Atlantic?"   
  
"The only European flight we have this early is for Heathrow Airport in England. It leaves in fifty-five minutes. Would you like to take that one?"   
  
Queenie shook her head. "I must have a flight directly to my country. Do you know of Elwes International Airport, in the city of Tobeins? Does any pilot here know where it is? I am a rich woman and I will pay anyone very handsomely who can take me there." She quietly spread a roll of bills out on the counter.   
  
The clerk's eyes widened and she stuffed the bills in her breast pocket. "I'll see what I can do."   
  
I wandered around for about a half hour, getting coffee and drinking it slowly. Except for a brief jaunt up to Canada on a field trip and a week in Mexico with my dad a few years ago, I had never been out of the country. Queenie hadn't mentioned whether we were just laying low until the heat from the bomb threat died down, or if it was going to be a permanent situation.   
  
I ended up back in the lounge. Satine and the other two servants, Marina and Loare, had finally arrived and were glued to the TV, which was turned to CNN.   
  
Onscreen, someone was talking about "the attempted bombing of the Genovian Embassy in Manhattan. The building was partially destroyed at 4 AM today when a small plastique bomb went off. Luckily, nobody was hurt, as the building had already been evacuated. There was not very much damage, as you can see from our newsfeed--" the embassy was shown with a small hole in the entranceway "--but police are already making an inquiry. Sources say that the bombing was politically motivated and may have been the work of anti-Royalist Genovians in the United States."   
  
Satine noticed me and beckoned me over. I sat down next to her. "How are you doing?" I asked softly.   
  
Satine hugged me. "I am just glad you are not hurt, Rachelle. But I am also glad that I will be able to go back home soon!" Her eyes were shining.   
  
"Home? But I thought you were Florinese."   
  
"Yes. But I consider Genovia to be my home. After all, I have spent most of my life there." She sighed. "I would like to go back to Florin, though, to visit the farm where my ancestors lived, and to walk through the Fire Swamp where my great-great-great-grandmother hid when she was being chased..."   
  
I put my arm around her. "I promise I'll take you to Florin, Satine. I'll free your parents and then we can all go and you can show me all the places that you tell me about."   
  
We sat there, looking into the future.   
  
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I shall conclude, for I am no longer a duchess in America. A new age is dawning, and with it, a new diary. Keep your eyes peeled for the next exciting installment about my zany political hijinx in Genovia. 


End file.
